EPISODE TWO

'prince's parcel'

ARRIVING BACK HOME after being around Leon's felt like coming back to earth. Two drastically different worlds that blur when forced to join together, that continued to repel each other, not wanting to join. So I always felt like I was coming out of the cinemas when I came from Leon's world and back to my own.

I smelt lasagna as soon as I swung the door open, the cold trailing after me. Not soon after was Estelle's singing over some old Italian crooning over the radio.

"I'm home," I called, ushering out of my coat before reaching the kitchen and shaking the few orange leaves that caught over it. Estelle turned from the pot, a warmed smile on her dark red lips.

"Welcome home, darlin'," she greeted, waving a wooden spoon coated in red sauce. "Dinner is almost done. How was your day?"

"It was good, normal." I looked around, keeping my toes off any hot pot. Its been easier to lie now when you keep it simple and direct attention elsewhere quickly.

The kitchen was almost clean, as Estelle had most likely cleaned up as she worked on dinner. The cutlery and plates are also all done up on the dinner table. Blue ceramics with red patterned napkins and fresh pink tulips in a yellow vase in the middle.

These are her small touches. Dad and I functioned entirely on necessity. Estelle brought a vibrancy to things with more voluptuous brightness than necessary, but somehow I enjoyed it. The house felt more loved. Although my stepmother and I had a shaky start and our relationship isn't precisely what people thought, she was a fine addition to this household. She was her very own star and she didn't mind taking in a few clouds along the way.

"Is there nothing for me to help with?" I surveyed the area twice. Everything's done up.

Estelle shook her head, an entire tirade with her big hair, glamourised in designed curls, a yellow headband, and big hoop earrings. She was multiple movements over one action. It felt like an entire scene with a full cast and dialogue watching her go.

"Not at all. I'm almost done, you can relax for five before I'll call up for dinner."

"Okay. I'll just wash up then."

"Mm."

So I left her there, swinging her hips slowly, murmuring the song. Before I headed up the stairs, I stopped slightly over the closed door of my dad's office. The light is on but I keep quiet to hear his working sounds.

As an engineer for a private company, he mostly handles work outside of the house. Whenever he does bring in papers, he locks himself up without actually locking the door. He used to with my mum. Whenever she had her bad days, they really swung bad to worse. The door was a silent communication between them. When it was just us, the habit didn't leave. Though I never bothered him because I was just used to... not asking him for things.

With Estelle, she never understood door locking. There was a rule about that in the house she grew up in. I thought for sure my dad would never allow it. It was a habit now. But the door is left unlocked for her, whenever she felt like swinging by to do meaningless things. Sometimes to just chat with my dad.

I reached over the knob now, checking by slowly, rigidly turning it. It moves smoothly, unlock as always, so I stop, leave it alone, and change for dinner.

I didn't know why I did that. But I do remember my mother the most, the two emotions she has on her good days and bad days. Good days, she'd be humming, pale blonde hair smoothened over into a ponytail, knocking quietly, almost soundlessly, over the door. Dad would open it and there would be a smile on her face as she talked.

The bad days were the screaming. Where her hair was loose and ratty, a pale, greenish tint to her skin, her bony wrist rattling the doorknob madly, her other fist pounding on the door.

I'd watch her from the stairs, afraid and small. My dad would open the door quickly and try to calm her down or at least persuade her in taking her medication. She never really shouts, but her voice would go over his and they would be so shaky and panicky, that I would delve deeper into the shadowy corner, afraid to even be smelled.

But she'd never notice me. Only dad did, and he always had that haunted look in his eyes, exhausted and sad and angry, a whirlpool of emotion, and he always tried a smile for me.

I don't remember what expression I had then. At those times. But I never remembered smiling.

I guess I should forget those days. Dad is trying. I think. Maybe not. Maybe he picks apart his life and divides them like I do. He lets Estelle seep into our lives, give it colour when it had a murky, indescribable pantones.

It's the same house but different feel. Like two different worlds, unable to blur together by simply existing with wild difference.

I wonder if dad notices that blurry, murky line in the middle too. Or he ignores it and just let it move on.

———

Leon's call was earlier than usual. In fact, it was at six am on the dot that my phone rang with his name clearly appearing on my screen.

I was still in bed, half asleep, and answered with a croaky, "Hello?"

"On the event of my death, this recording must be sent to Leon Song in accordance to our agreement," Leon's voice was grave, but it was definitely his. "My only note is this. I have been murdered, my friend. And you owe my final body a case."

A stifling, chilling quiet ensued. I couldn't even hear his breathing. I took a deep breath myself, checked the time again, checked the familiar sounds of my house with its occupants asleep, before replying.

"... If that's how you greet people now instead of hello, I'm pretty sure you're going to get a lot of dropped calls in your future."

Leon cleared his throat. "Would be better would it? If I got dropped calls and be left alone to disappear as I want? I understand that it's hard to be left alone in the spotlight I created myself, at the stage I set and played, but is it really so hard to become a ghost without actually dying?"

Death, though was a familiar topic, was never one to be directed at either one of us.

"What's going on, Leon? Who was that from?"

"From Dominic Prince, socialite prince full of shark teeth, an incredible amount of wit, and a dark etymology enough to make a book out of."

The words rung in my head. "He's... dead?"

"Yes. Found just an hour after the letter and his parcel was dispatched. Like the incredible, dramatic little twat that he is, he sent me a fixed message before he died. Of course, I didn't read nor touch it immediately. I took my sweet time until I was bombed. With murder. His to be possible."

He had the habit of sweeping off air from my lungs, and I was positively awake now. "Leon, I don't know what to say, I'm so sorry."

"Thanks." His voice, I realised, was in a state of offhanded. Not sad, nor chirpy... just his usual tone. Though without the usual smile to his voice. "I don't think he's dead though. Not until I see the body."

"You're going to London, then?"

"And I was hoping you'd come."

"Me?"

"Be my strength, Wendy." His voice was soft, out of will I realised. It clenched at my chest. "I'm eighty percent sure his dramatic arse isn't really dead, but I want to be sure. And if he is alive and is just... messing with me, stirring shit up just because he's bored again, I've already promised to kick his arse to kingdom come the next time he faked his death."

"Oh.. kay." I stood up, phone still pressed to my ear and blinked. "Okay. I'll come."

"I'll be at your house shortly then."

"No, don't come!" I nearly shouted, heart hammering. Lowering my voice as soon as the decibels reached peak problematic sound. "I'll meet you at Bleachers, some point in between our houses."

"... you've got to tell them sometime, Wendy."

I exhaled. "Not right now."

"... Fine. I'll meet you then by five minutes."

"Isn't that still early?"

"I've been awake since last night when I checked the parcel. Mr. Lancaster said it might not be appropriate to ask you to go at three in the morning so I waited until six, which he thinks is still a stretch, but far more appropriate."

I blinked. "... thank him for me, then. What was in the parcel by the way?"

"An entire video of his will and whim, and explaining exactly why he was to be murdered before the actual murder occurring."

"That's... that's got to be some sort of a joke, right?"

"Trust me, Wendy, Dominic Prince may seem like The Fool in a deck of pristine cards, but he's actually The Ace. Always waiting to be a salvation... or a destruction. He's not the game itself but the ending. The hand that plays the last move. He lets the people play, watches them use him until he either becomes their prize or the reason for their demise. Sometimes he's both... and I don't know if I have the strength if I find out he's actually dead."

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NEXT

EPISODE 03

THE TRIGGER, THE WILL, AND THE BODY

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